Warning: this entire chapter might be too disturbing for some readers. Either read at your own discretion, rent a guardian or parent or something, or grow a backbone.
Enjoy.
An uneasy feeling crossed the three. Something seemed very unnatural about the state of the village. The atmosphere was very thick, tense, and dreary, not at all the bustling village that they had expected. There was an unusual stillness about it. The air was foggy and misty – thick with humidity and greyness. There was a strange coldness about the village, almost like they had just been drenched in ice. They could even see their breaths flowing in front of them. And although it was reported to have nearly one thousand residents living there, along with various Magical creatures, and animals, there didn't seem to be a soul in sight. Not a plant. Not an animal. Not even a person.
"Does it seem a bit . . ." said Ron uneasily. "quiet to you?" But even Ron's hushed voice seemed to thunder across the stillness of the village. He glanced around at the surroundings. Even the trees beside him seemed grey and deadened. Their leaves were ripped and shedding.
It felt almost like a graveyard.
"I don't understand," said Barty, looking around. "Didn't you say the Aurors were waiting on us?"
Ron blinked. "Well–yeah," he replied, looking down at the trail down the double metal doors. "But . . . you think the Death Eaters got to them?"
"Only one way to find out . . ." said Barty, squaring his shoulders before walking down the path. Ron moved to follow him. But it seemed Neville had regained his composure. He stepped them in front of the two, blocking their path.
"Oi," he stammered, sounding uneasy. "but – it's only three of us –"
"I know," replied Barty, moving past Neville without another glance. "but we can't just leave the villagers here. We've got to help."
Ron nodded. "Advice from a champ?" said Ron, clapping the shorter man on the shoulder before he passed. "Grow a backbone, Neville."
Neville slumped, defeated. "Thanks, Ron."
Finally, they continued on the path. The dead grass crunched under their feet. Twigs from dead trees cracked like broken bones. But as soon as they stepped past the double metal doors, the smell of rotting flesh overwhelmed their senses. Ron resisted the urge to throw up.
"Something seems a bit . . ." said Neville, glancing around warily. "odd about this village, don't you think?"
Ron raised a brow. "Floating hundreds of miles above water isn't odd to you?"
"Well–"
"Oi," interjected Barty, pointing ahead. "Look here."
They followed Barty's finger and squinted past the thick mist. To their surprise, at the edge of the double metal doors, there was a large stable filled with rows and rows of bony thin, horse-like creatures that kicked at the dust beneath their feet. There were almost a hundred of them. As Ron neared them, he noticed that they were strapped with thick leather ropes around their heads to keep them from scurrying off. Ron's eyes widened at the sight.
"Thestrals!" cried Neville.
"There's hundreds of them!" breathed Ron.
"You don't think they use them to get down, do they?" asked Barty.
Ron frowned. "You mean like fly out of the village?"
"Yeah."
"Dunno," shrugged Ron. "I thought they used broomsticks."
"But–aren't there Muggles here?" asked Barty, glancing around. "How can they use Thestrals, then? Come to think of it, how do they explain why the island's floating in the first place?"
"They made a pact–the Magical-Muggle pact," explained Neville. "Most villagers here know that magic exists, I think. But telling Muggles about magic–it's only allowed in certain areas, and the Ministry's got to have a say in it."
"Sounds like they took it well," muttered Barty, but Ron sensed a bit of sarcasm in his tone. But he decided to let it slide.
"Come on," said Ron, moving ahead down the trail. "We'll never know unless we find out."
The other two nodded.
"Right."
They continued down the trail, but the more they walked, the more dreary and silent the place became. Ron didn't know if the hundreds of Thestrals that they had seen had tainted the mood of the village for him or not. But there was an eerie stillness about it. Almost like Death was waiting at the end of the trail with his scythe drawn, ready to seize their souls.
"It's like a Dementor threw up in here," grimaced Ron, holding his cloak to his nose. "Where is everyone?"
There was hardly anyone there. But even if there was anyone, they could hardly see anything with the thick mist ahead of them. It didn't help that it was almost night. But even the light of the moon, even at this height, didn't make it through the thick, icy fog. Their anxious breaths merged with it like whiskey to water. They looked around with cautious and guarded postures. Abandoned shop stations lingered in the center, barrels were overturned beside the doors, sign posts hung lopsided, wagons were abandoned. And yet, the icy feeling in Ron's stomach amplified. Everything smelled and felt like death. It was almost surreal in that aspect.
"You reckon we've been tricked?" asked Neville, tripping over an abandoned stuffed female doll in the center.
"Dunno," replied Ron, his voice barely above a whisper. "I thi–" But suddenly, a hoarse breath came from behind them. It was as if someone was breathing down their necks.
"D'you hear that?" whispered Barty, his wand drawn. Ron almost kicked himself for not thinking of that sooner.
So much for Auror training.
"Hear, what?" blanched Neville.
But Barty was glancing at something behind Ron and Neville. Though Ron couldn't see his eyes, he could tell that the younger man was shocked. He stepped back, almost as if repulsed by something. And as Ron and Neville glanced back, they paled at the sight before them. The creature looked almost like a long cloak, but they could tell that it was alive by the way that it was gliding. It looked a large bat that had its wings outstretched. It had a dark-clothed figure covered from head to toe, eerily similar to a Dementor. It looked to have a slight fold in the center, where Ron assumed was where its mouth was. But unlike the Dementor, it didn't seem to care about them. Instead, it simply glided through the gap between Neville and Ron and slinked away. The other two sighed in relief.
"Blimey," breathed Ron, his eyes glued on the creature. "That's no Dementor!"
"No," said Neville, his face pale. "It's a Lethifold."
"A Lethi–what?"
"They're like Dementors," explained Neville, his voice trembling with poorly concealed trepidation. "but they only attack you if you're sleep."
"Well, that's a relief," Ron puffed out a breath. "If I had something like that breathing down my neck, I won't even bother blinking."
"But what are they doing here?" asked Barty. He looked, if possible, even paler than before.
"Reckon it's got something to do with the villagers?"
"Dunno."
But as Neville and Barty conversed, Ron froze in place. There, down in the nearby wooden house that they were standing beside, a wide eyed woman and, what seemed like, her daughter were silently standing behind their closed window and staring at Ron with vacant eyes. There didn't seem to be any acknowledgement or even any recognition in their eyes, even though he was dressed like an Auror. Ron gradually grew even more uneasy.
Something was terribly wrong.
"Er," he began, drawing the attention of the other two. "I think I've found the villagers." He pointed at the two individuals standing behind their windows.
A part of him was relieved that the other two could see them as well.
"Should we ask them what's going on?" asked Neville, frowning. But before they could consider the matter, Barty already started walking.
"Oi," barked Ron. "Wait up, will you?"
"But–" stammered Neville. "But we haven't discussed this."
The other two ignored him. Instead, they approached the door. There was an aloft signpost above the lantern at the side of the house, banging on the wall. The post was rather worn and cracked, almost as if it had been there years ago. Barty met Ron's gaze and tilted his head towards the door. Ron gave him a firm nod before he rapped loudly on the wooden door.
"Oi," barked Ron, ignoring Neville who had scurried towards them. "Aurors here! Open up! We've got questions."
But no one answered. And Ron tried again. "Listen," he warned. "If you don't open this door in the next three seconds, we're blasting our way through."
Neville flinched. "Ron–"
"One!"
Neville scrambled forth. He tried to grab for Ron's wrist, but Barty held him back and shook his head. "Two!" shouted Ron, his wand drawn at the door. "Three!"
Finally, the door was blasted open. They had to duck their heads in case any sharp wood stabbed into them. But as they straightened up, they looked inside and found a fairly dark room. A strong whiff of rotten flesh overwhelmed them, and they fought the urge to retch. Not to mention, there was a dull, incessant thump coming from inside. It was almost rhythmic.
"I dunno what's less sane," said Ron grimly, grimacing against the strong stench. "My head, or this blasted village." The floorboards creaked and groaned under their feet as they stepped into the home. Everything was dark with only the faint light of the evening illuminating the inside. As they opened the door, however, it snapped and collided loudly against the floor. Neville paled but shot Ron an uneasy look.
"If you weren't sane," he said, illuminating his wand. "you wouldn't have asked that question, would you?"
"Fair enough," muttered Ron.
"Come on," said Barty, likewise illuminating his wand.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
"What's that?" asked Neville, his voice betraying his fear.
"Dunno," said Barty, sounding calm. "Let's find out."
They stepped inside in a large room with bar stools and long, tall counters to the left of the room. There were several wooden chairs and tables arranged sloppily in the middle of the room, though they looked cracked and heavy with dust. The walls were stained with greenish-yellow mold. Large spider webs were drawn on the corners as well as the tables. The place smelled like rotten flesh, wine, and feces. It was almost hard to breathe in there.
"It's . . ." began Ron, disgusted. "a–pub?" But what caught their attention was not the pub itself. In fact, it was the numerous bodies sprawled across the whole lengths of the room. There looked to be about a dozen of them; some sprawled on the tables, their legs dangling. Some leaning against the walls, some leaning against each other. One of the men even had his head buried in a beer barrel, and there was no doubt in their minds that he had died there.
"What the hell happened?" breathed Neville, his eyes with horror.
"Are they–" asked Ron weakly. "dead?" But Barty stepped up. The other two watched dimly as he approached a nearby table and knelt down besides one of the bodies. He stuck two fingers near the man's neck.
"No," said Barty, rising to his feet and looking around, his eyes lingering on the bodies on the floor. "They're still breathing. They're asleep . . . or stunned."
"Or both," suggested Neville.
Barty shrugged. "I suppose."
Frowning, Ron reached next to one of the bodies sprawled along the table. This one looked a bit old, somewhere around his fifties. He reached up to check his pulse before retracting.
"No," said Ron, his heart racing. "This one's dead." But as he looked around to study the perimeter, he paled at the figure behind the counters. "And–blimey–look at this."
Thump. Thump. Thump.
They turned to look across the bar counter only to find a shaggy, brown-haired man of about thirty years repeatedly beating his head over a stained glass window of a Thunderbird on the wall. They could see that the window was cracked, and there was blood dripping down from his head to his arms and onto the floor. But the man didn't seem to notice. His movements were rhythmic, almost as if he didn't feel any kind of pain. He didn't even notice the three individuals that had entered the bar. To Ron, the man was clearly demented.
"What-What's he doing?" stuttered Neville, drawing forth his wand. The three took cautious steps towards the man.
"He's mental!" said Ron loudly.
"Excuse me, Sir," said Barty warily, his wand drawn. He leapt over the counter and tried to reach for the man's shoulder. "Are you all right? Look, we're Aurors–" But as Barty tried to approach him, the man whipped around, his eyes white and wide. With the swiftness of a deranged animal, he leapt onto Ron, who had just made his way towards him. Ron felt his breath knocked out of him as his head slammed on the edge of the counters behind him. He groaned. He felt dizzy and groggy, but he refused to give into unconsciousness. The two collapsed in a tangle of limbs. To Ron's utter bewilderment, the man began to claw wildly on Ron with his chapped nails, his blood dripping from his head.
"Oi!" bellowed Ron. "Gerroff!"
"Stupefy!" shouted Barty.
The man limped onto Ron. Breathing heavily, his head throbbing painfully, Ron disgustedly shoved him away. He took Neville's hand with a grimace before he straightened his robes. He hastily wiped the blood from his face.
"Quick thinking, Barty," breathed Ron, wiping sweat from his brow. This whole village was demented. The sooner they found out what was going on, the faster they got out.
"Don't mention it."
Ron watched dimly as Barty conjured ropes to wrap the man to the counter in case he woke up from the Stunning Charm.
"Why'd he attack you?" asked Neville, bewildered.
"He's lost his marbles," breathed Ron, running a hand through his hair. "Guess that's proof that not everything's all birds and butterflies."
"Good lesson for Rosè, don't you think?"
"Er–" Ron paused before he grimaced. "Yeah. When she's older, I s'pose."
Neville shook his head. "Coward."
"Look!" interjected Barty.
He pointed into a shadowed corner of the pub at the window sill that the woman and her daughter had sitting against. This time, they had their backs facing the Aurors. But they looked deathly still, almost as if they were dolls. Ron glanced out the window, trying to deduce what they were looking at. But they were looking at the same place that Ron and the others had been standing just moments ago. It didn't seem that the women had any acknowledgement nor care who was standing there. But as Ron approached, he nearly choked by the foul smell that drifted to his nose.
The three glanced at each other warily. They each drew their wands, their posture stiff and ready to leap at a moment's notice.
"Excuse me," began Barty, a hint of wariness in his tone. "Do you mind telling us what happened here?"
But the two didn't move. In fact, they remained deathly still.
"Hello?" said Ron, impatient. He carefully moved forward. "They're not responding."
But Neville approached them first.
"Oi, we're Aurors," said Neville, reaching a hand for the mother's shoulder. "We're here to–" But then they stepped back with horror. As soon as Neville laid a hand on the woman's shoulder, the two collapsed backwards onto the floor, their heads lolling, their eyes wide open, their lips blue and pursed. There was a large, black tinge on their heads. Their skin looked flaky and decaying. Their smell foul and rotten. With disgust, Ron caught sight of a herd of maggots in the mother's ears. Their hair was clumped up, their fingernails ripped and brittle. The daughter, which looked to be in her middle teens, had her stomach bloated, her flesh peeking out the torn parts of her robes.
They were definitely dead.
"This whole village's barmy!" cried Ron, running an agitated hand through his hair.
"I don't think we should be here," said Neville shakily.
"We can't leave now," interjected Barty. "They need our help."
"But the Ministry–?"
"The Ministry didn't give a damn about them," said Barty firmly. He sounded frustrated. "You really think they would miss an entire village falling asleep? Look, this one's been dead for a while," he gestured to the woman and her daughter. "They must've died asleep. It's obvious, isn't it? They've set this one up."
"Then . . ." said Neville slowly, his eyes bulging. "the Aurors . . .?"
"They lied," said Barty flatly. "They haven't sent anyone. They led us here to die."
But Barty's words echoed in Ron's mind. He remembered Dumbledore warning him about the turbulent state of the Auror office. He had warned both him and Neville to take extra caution during their missions.
Barty was right.
"But who would want kill us?" asked Neville, glancing around warily.
"I dunno," said Barty, a hint of impatience in his tone. "The villagers?"
Ron remembered the man that had leapt on them and agreed with Barty. So much for a new recruit, he thought grimly. They were supposed to be teaching him, not the other way around. But the thought quickly banished. Ron's eyes widened at the three dark-clothed figures behind Barty and Neville.
"Er–" he began, his wand drawn. "I think I've found someone who will. Behind you!" He tackled Neville to the ground as a Curse barely missed them. It hit a glass vase behind them, which exploded on contact. Suddenly, the bookcase in front of them toppled and nearly fell over them until Neville levitated it up. They rolled out from beneath it, but Ron hurled it over the incoming Death Eater while Neville disarmed the other and hit on the head with a beer bottle. Panting, they looked up and found Barty shaking himself out a pile of rubble. Apparently, he and the last Death Eater that he had dueled had fallen in it. Ron rushed to his side and tried to help him up, but Barty waved his hand away. Breathing heavily, they started to search the bodies for any hints. But there was little that they could find.
"Death Eaters!" asked Neville, panting from the duel. "Here?"
"Dolt," said Ron, rolling his eyes. "That's why we're here."
"Oh, right," blinked Neville, flushing slightly. "But where did they come from?"
"Probably acting like four year olds," said Ron, disgusted. He kicked the Death Eater near him for good measure. "Hiding inside the houses, I reckon."
"They're not Death Eaters."
Ron and Neville shot Barty startled looks.
"What?"
"How d'you know?" demanded Ron. He had to admit. Something about Barty was suspicious. His mannerisms, his tone, his dueling style. He almost opened his mouth to voice his thoughts before Barty knelt down beside the Death Eater and flicked aside the robe sleeve.
"They haven't got the Dark Mark," explained Barty, almost impatient. "And I didn't reco –" he paused and shook his head. "Er, nevermind."
"Barty?"
"Let's check the rest of the village," said Barty hastily before he turned to walk to the door. The other two followed him with a hint of wariness.
"Right."
As they descended further down the trail, a strange loud rattle pierced the stillness of the night. Glancing warily at each other, they slowly followed the sound and turned the corner only to be identify the source of the sound.
To their amazement, at the end of the trail was a large clearing of land that was separated far beyond the wooden houses of the village. In the center of the trail, however, was a large, enchanted golden cage that contained a large, dragon-sized bird that looked almost like a Phoenix, screeching and batting its wings fiercely against the thick chains that wrapped around its neck and feet. Its beak was black and sharp. Its plummage consisted of red and black zigzags all across its chest. As it twisted on its chains and flapped furiously, a billowing wind crossed them, and they had to duck their heads to avoid getting dust in their eyes.
But as they squinted their eyes open, they realized with amazement that the bird was rapidly changing colors: purple, yellow, blue, red.
"Blimey," breathed Ron, his eyes wide and bulging. "Is that–?"
"The Thunderbird," breathed Neville.
"Merlin's pants!" cried Ron, absentmindedly inching forward. But the Thunderbird squawked and flapped its wings in return. "What've they done to it?"
"They've chained it," said Neville, a look of awe on his face. "I think it's protected by the Ministry. You know, by the Naturalists. For researching and what not."
Suddenly, a strong wind crossed them. With startled cries, they drew their cloaks over their faces, grimacing against the billowing winds conjured by the Thunderbird. The latter didn't seem to like them very much, Ron supposed.
"It really does like a Phoenix," breathed Barty.
"And it's changing colours," added Ron.
"If the Ministry's been protecting the Thunderbird," said Neville thoughtfully. "Why haven't they protected the villagers? Surely they knew about it?"
"With almost a thousand people on their death beds," replied Barty. "I doubt they didn't."
"Then, why didn't they–?"
But they stopped.
There, as they moved closer to the wrestling Thunderbird, they froze at the sight that they witnessed behind it. Behind the Thunderbird, there looked to be some sort of person – a guard, Ron supposed – lying back first on the ground. But what nauseated Ron was the fact that there were several seagulls huddled around the seemingly dead man ripping apart bits of flesh from the man and consuming it. Ron resisted the urge to vomit. Who the hell was responsible for all this? How many villagers were here exactly – a thousand? How many of them were dead or asleep? How many of them had died asleep?
"Does the Ministry have a say on whether I'll be live enough to get back to my kids?" enquired Ron, grimacing. But suddenly, a cloaked figure glided near the man, chasing the seagulls away. Ron recognized it as a Lethifold. "Blimey, those Lethifolds are real . . . creepy."
"Weas–I mean, Ron," said Barty hastily, sounding rattled. "Can we talk–?"
"Look!" cried Neville, pointing a finger at the creature. With its cloak outstretched outwards, it knelt down, slinked on top of the dead man, and started to consume it. It was almost like a snail. Enclothing the prey before digesting it. Its figure moved like wavelengths with every segment of the human. In the darkness of the night, it was almost like a night-time comforter. But a comforter that didn't comfort. Hell, that was one comforter that Ron would never buy Rosè.
"What are they doing?" staggered Ron.
"They're feeding off the villagers," blanched Barty. "Someone's sent the Lethifolds against them."
"How do we stop them?"
"Well," said Neville shakily, his eyebrows creased into a thoughtful frown. "If they're anything like Dementors–"
"Patronus Charm?"
Neville nodded.
"Right," he declared, drawing his wand. "Ready?"
"Wait," interjected Barty, stepping back into the shadows. "I can't cast the Patronus Charm."
But the other two ignored him. They hurried to the man and drew their wands to cast their Patronus Charms. As their Patronuses hurried to chase the Lethifold, the Lethifold slinked away, leaving a dark trail in its trail. It was almost hard to see it. It almost blended in with the night, but the Patronus Charms cast a reassuring illumination before they, too, vanished, leaving them drenched in darkness. But as Neville turned around to light the lanterns perched near the doors of the houses, Ron rounded on Barty.
"You're a bloody Auror," snapped Ron, the night taking its toll on his temper. "You can't cast the Patronus Charm?"
But Barty staggered back, seemingly unsettled. "Well, I–" he stammered, caught off guard. "I didn't–I never–"
"Come on," interjected Neville, throwing a warning glare at Ron. "Let's check the other houses."
Together, they followed Neville across the daunting trail, with Ron throwing furtive looks at Barty. Sometimes, he seemed like an expert, someone that knew what he was talking about. He was fairly skilled and quite adept for a person without prior experience in the field. But these basic weakness . . . What kind of Auror didn't know how to cast the Patronus Charm, anyway?
But finally, Neville stopped near a home tucked between the slopes of two small hills. To their bewilderment, they discovered that the door to the house was ajar, as if someone had broken through it. But beside the house, however, was a large, brown-haired mutt lying sideways on the ground, its claws extended outwards as if attacking someone. It was definitely dead. Glancing at each other, they entered the home on wary feet, their wands drawn and ready to pounce. But as soon as they entered, they came across a large room about the size of Hogwarts dormitory. At the far end of the room was a lit, brick fireplace with small tables with vases on top of them. Perched on top of the fireplace was a pot was filled with, what Ron suspected, was Floo powder.
But what caught their attention was, in fact, the large sofa sandwiched by two armchairs in front of the fireplace, a coffee table in front of them. To their surprise, there was an elderly shaggy-haired woman sitting on the sofa, trembling and rocking in place. They could even hear her muttering to herself.
"Finally," sighed Ron, stepping to the woman. "someone that can make sense of this madness."
"Hello, Madam," greeted Neville, stepping forward. But the woman continued to rock herself helplessly. "Sorry to intrude. We're Aurors, you see. And we're here to–"
But they froze.
The woman wasn't muttering at all. In fact, she elicited a quiet, deranged laughter that only those near her could hear her. But what startled them was the shard of glass that she had in her hands. Her hands were stained with blood. With a mad cackle, she glanced at them from behind shaggy hair and lifted the glass shard to her throat.
As soon as he realised what was happening, Ron cried:
"No, stop!"
"No!" shouted Neville, rushing to halt her movements. But the woman was too quick for them. With the swiftness of a predator, she sliced her throat and collapsed on the floor, her eyes wide, her mouth agape.
"This village–" muttered Ron, breathing heavily. "Merlin."
"There must something causing this," said Barty, stepping inside beside the woman. He knelt down and started to rummage through her clothes for any explanation.
"Like, what?" asked Ron, his arms flailing out. A part of him wished that Hermione was here. "A pit of madness or something?"
"No," said Barty, standing up. His gaze flickered across the small table in front of the sofa and at the fireplace. "Maybe it's a side effects or something. Let's think, what's something that's common in most people?"
Neville and Ron glanced at each other.
"Er," said Neville hesitantly. "Houses?"
Ron's gaze fixed on a crate of rotten fruit in a corner underneath a row of glass ornaments shaped like skulls. He struggled to suppress a grimace at the sight of spiders and maggots inside of it.
"Food . . .?" he suggested dully. "Whiskey?"
Neville frowned. "Whiskey?"
"I don't know about you," said Ron, almost defensively. "but my brothers and I bond with whiskey."
"That's it!" cried Barty.
The other two shot strange looks.
"Er – whiskey?" asked Neville, looking bewildered.
But Barty shook his head. They watched as he strode up to the small table in front of the sofa and picked up a glass of clear liquid inside of it.
"No," said Barty impatiently, holding up the glass. "It's a drink–it's water!" The other two approached him. He took out his wand and waved it against the chipped glass of water before the identity of the content inside was revealed.
"Draught of Living Death," breathed Ron, looking pale. With a sense of dread in his chest, he turned to Neville with wide eyes. "Isn't that–?"
"Permanent sleep," declared Neville gravely.
"Someone must've poisoned the water," said Barty.
"But-but didn't we learn in N.E.W.T classes," said Ron, suddenly feeling very ill. "Didn't Snape say that a high dosage is . . .?"
"Irreversible," nodded Neville, his face losing all color. "Yeah, he did."
"Can't be," said Barty simply. "There's the Wiggenweld Potion, isn't there?"
"But–"
"Look, we'll think about this later," waved Barty, stepping past the two towards the door. He didn't seem convinced by their conclusions. "For now, we can just–"
But as he reached the door, Barty suddenly froze in place. His posture stiff and tense, his face drained of all color. He stood, staring out the window from beside the door. Something outside seemed to have caught his attention.
Something was up.
"Barty?" asked Ron, throwing a wary glance at Neville.
Neville shrugged, looking worried.
Ron turned and tried to approach the younger man, but the latter didn't seem to register him. In fact, something outside of the window seemed to have horrified him. Frowning, Ron peered outside the window, but he couldn't find anything amiss. The village was still as dreary as ever. Irresistibly, he wondered if the atmosphere of the village had finally gotten to Barty's head. Confused, he tried to ask Barty what he was looking at before Barty spoke.
"Ron," breathed Barty, a hint of fear in his voice. "Can we talk?"
Ron frowned. "We are."
"No," said Barty impatiently. "I mean, privately. Sorry, Neville."
"It's all right," said Neville, looking slightly befuddled. Waving them away, he turned to lean against the wall. "I'll just wait here, then."
"Right."
Ron followed Barty out of the house and near a secluded area between two wooden homes. As soon as they stepped out, they were instantly drenched in darkness. Only the dim light from the lanterns nearby illuminated their faces while their shadows flickered along the ground. Everything was deathly silent except for their footsteps. As they turned to face each other, Ron noticed that Barty was still glancing around, almost as if he suspected that something ominous was near them.
"Something wrong, Barty?" asked Ron, a hint of concern in his voice. Barty looked tense and uneasy, a far cry from the composed Auror that Ron had met hours ago.
"Ron," said Barty tersely. "The Order's in trouble."
Ron flinched back, almost stumbling into a broken lantern on the ground.
"What?"
"The Order," repeated Barty impatiently. "Someone's sold them out. They're going to be killed. Tonight. Before midnight."
Ron flinched at the bluntness. "What?" breathed Ron, his eyes wide with horror, his mind clouded with disbelief. "But–they can't be. Dumbledore–"
"He doesn't know," interposed Barty hastily. "Look, you've got to tell them. Someone's charmed the coins to throw them off–"
"How did you know?" demanded Ron, drawing forth his wand. Who the hell was he, anyway? And how did he get that information?
Barty stepped back in defense. "You've got to listen to me," said Barty, a hint of frustration in his tone. "There's no time–"
"Like hell I'll listen to you," snapped Ron, his wand leveled at Barty. "No one knows that information but members of the Order."
"What are you–?"
"Who are you?" demanded Ron, his eyes narrowed. "I doubt you're the real Barty. You're a bloody imposter, aren't you?"
To Ron's surprise, Barty sighed. He shot Ron a wary look before he reached up to point his wand at his hair and his glasses. With shock, Ron watched dumbly, vaguely aware that his own wand was still pointed at the younger man, as Barty's messy brown-hair turned coal black. He then reached up to remove his glasses and took out a light, rounder pair of glasses that looked eerily familiar. When he finished, he looked and Ron could finally see his eyes. Staggering back with disbelief, Ron locked eyes with the bottle-green eyes of the one person that he had never expected to see ever again.
It was Harry.
"It's me," said Harry, a hint of unease in his tone. "It's Harry."
"I know who you are," he breathed, his lips dry. He didn't know how to feel. He was both elated and frustrated to see his friend here after all these years, though it was clear Harry didn't recognise him judging by his guarded expression He hadn't had time to study his friend back in the Ministry, but he couldn't believe how much his friend had grown.
Well . . . former friend.
"W-What are you doing here, Harry?" Ron stammered, but Harry simply shot him an annoyed look. "Why're you here?"
"I told you," said Harry irritably. "The Order's in trouble–"
"Right," replied Ron, a bite in his tone. As the shock effaced, his wits slowly returned to him. "As if you give a damn about the Order. You can't fool me, Harry."
"Well, I'm here now, aren't I?" snapped Harry, his green eyes flashing. "You think I'll go through all that trouble just to mess with you?"
Ron gritted his teeth, frustrated. "I don't know," snapped Ron, his arms flailing. "No one knows what the hell your intentions are, Harry. We thought we knew you once, but we haven't got a bloody clue who you are anymore."
"I don't know myself," said Harry flatly, glaring at the lantern perched on the house next to them. In the dim light, Ron could see the deep bags under his eyes; he looked exhausted.
"Wha–?"
"Look," said Harry firmly, running an agitated hand through his hair. "Your dad sent me here–"
"My dad?"
"Yes," said Harry, frustrated. "He's in trouble. Look, Ron, that man you've been living with. He's an impost–"
But Harry froze. Ron was too busy trying to process the information that he missed Harry's eyes widening and his face paling at the sight of something behind Ron. Once again, Ron followed his gaze. But he couldn't see anything besides the rugged, stone ground and the empty shop stations of the village. Turning around, he found that Harry was still looking fixedly at that spot, the flame from the lantern nearby reflecting in his green eyes.
Warily, Ron tried to approach him.
"Harry?"
But Harry retracted violently. Masking his surprise, he startled when he found Harry's wand leveled at his chest.
"Stay away from me!" yelled Harry, taking several steps back away from Ron. But his wand never wavered from Ron's chest. It was clear that something had unnerved him.
"Wha –?" sputtered Ron, shaken by Harry's sudden mood change.
"Go!" shouted Harry. "Get out of here! You can't stay here!"
"What are you on about?" demanded Ron, trying to step closer to him. But the more he stepped, the more Harry moved back. "What happened to you?"
"It's a trap!" breathed Harry. "I shouldn't be out here!"
"What's –?"
"Ron –" struggled Harry, his voice shaking. "Hepizbah Smith's case –"
Ron's eyes widened.
"How did you know?"
"Ron – I was there," he said, breathing heavily. "It was me."
"What are you playing at?" said Ron, his heart racing. "Look, just hear me out – "
"No!" bellowed Harry. "It was me! I killed the three of them – Harper Narsfish, Bimini Bane, Stephen Carter. They were my victims –"
"What?" breathed Ron, a brief shake of his head. "But you couldn't have!"
"And you're next," swallowed Harry. "They're setting me up. They want me to kill you. The Ministry wants you dead!"
"Harry –"
"They knew I'd help you," muttered Harry, almost like he was speaking to himself. "They knew all along. That's why Voldemort gave me my wand back. He knew."
Ron carefully stepped forward. "Look, Harry," reassured Ron, tucking his wand away. He tried to approach Harry, but Harry continued to shake his head. "We can figure this out –"
"Stay away!" snapped Harry, his teeth clenched. "I brought him here." At the statement, Harry's chilled gaze shifted from Ron and stilled on something behind Ron.
Ron's heart sank.
"Who?" he breathed in horror.
But before he could elaborate, he felt something hit him square on the back. He felt himself falling and falling. He was unconscious before he reached the ground. Another thump was heard from indoors, and Harry knew that Longbottom was down, too. With a sense of dread in his heart, his face paler than usual, Harry looked up at the dark-clothed figure in front of him, his heart racing in his chest.
There, beneath the hood, was the two distinctive red eyes of Lord Voldemort. He gave Harry a smirk from the other side of Ron's unconscious body.
"Well done, Harry."
. . . . . . . .
With a dull sense of reality, Ron groaned, his head bowed towards his chest. He felt groggy and numb. He tried to squint his eyes open but hissed when the faint glow of a yellow light pierced his eyes. He tried to move his limbs but found that his hands were wrapped up in thick shackles. He was dangling from two separate chains on the wall, almost like a snow angel. Carefully, he squinted his eyes open and groaned when he finally registered how deep of a pain he was in. The right side of his head throbbed like the beating of a drum, his torso and chest area were bleeding profusely, his wrist felt immobile and probably even had some broken bones. It was as if someone had deliberately broke the wrist on his wand arm.
"Welcome back," said a dull voice.
Ron blinked several times. He was inside one of the homes, a living room to be exact. But the chairs and sofas were tucked away to the corners of the wall while the center remained large and empty. Several candles illuminated the dark room. He looked around and there were torn portraits on the wall, mold and hanging moss near the corners, spiders skittering across the aloft floorboards underneath the torn rug on the floor. He looked beside him and found three hooded Death Eaters leaning against the wall that he was strapped to. Their arms were crossed. Their heads bowed beneath their hoods. They stayed mostly silent.
But what caught his attention was, in fact, the tall, dark-clothed figure near the corner of the wall. It seemed he had changed his robes again. He was standing away from the light, in a shadowed corner of the wall, twirling his wand idly in his hand. His dark, messy hair blended with the background, his pale countenance providing a stark contrast to the black. And though, he wasn't looking up, Ron could see a faint string of red from his downcast eyes.
"He's here," murmured Harry, his eyes still averted.
"H-Harry?" rasped Ron, the blood dripping from his head caused a rough, metallic taste in his mouth. Not to mention, the rotten stench of flesh from the village didn't help, either. He was feeling very nauseous and unsettled by the situation.
Blinking away dark patches from his eyes, Ron took a while to understand what Harry had meant. Groaning, he let his head fall forwards, trying to shake the grogginess out his system. But as soon as he opened them, the red eyes explained to him who exactly Harry was talking about.
"You bastard," breathed Ron, his teeth gritted. He wrestled fiercely against the thick chains. "You brought him here, didn't you?"
The pain in his head was agonizing. It felt like someone had beat him repeatedly with the back hinge of a sword. He almost wanted to give in to unconsciousness, but the sight of Harry's cold, red gaze was enough for him to stay awake.
"Don't pretend to care," said Harry lazily, twirling his wand idly in his fingers. He didn't even bother himself to meet Ron's gaze. Nor did he care about his position.
"He'll kill them!"
"They're dead, anyway."
"What happened to you, Harry?" demanded Ron, adjusting himself to face Harry. "Why's Voldemort keeping you?"
Harry shot him a cold look.
"Why shouldn't he?"
"Bollocks," said Ron furiously. "You know why that is."
"Do I?"
"Oh, right, I forgot," said Ron darkly, trying to provoke something out of Harry. "Or hang on. You forgot, didn't you? You forgot everything."
"Think you're being funny, Weasley?"
"What's he promised you?" continued Ron, unfazed by Harry's irritation. "Fame? Glory? Riches? Anything you haven't got already?"
"Is that what Dumbledore told you?" asked Harry dully, his eyes fixed on the wand in his hand. Judging by the faint crease on his forehead, he was slowly losing patience with Ron.
"So you're against Dumbledore now?" asked Ron through gritted teeth. He almost felt like he was talking to a different person completely. There was no hint of Harry at all.
"I thought that was obvious," said Harry coldly.
Ron paused. He narrowed his eyes and gave Harry a long look. He knew that Harry was possessed, but he didn't think that Harry would be that different. It was almost like a complete reversed version himself. Everything that the true Harry was but on the opposite plane of the axis. It was like looking at a mirror reflection of him, a reflection that looked eerily like Riddle. From the arrogant aura that he exuded to even the physical features.
"You're not Harry," said Ron quietly.
Harry straightened. "Not really," he replied dully, waving a hand. He walked across and stopped beside a torn portrait on the wall. "I'm what's left of him."
"Yeah?" challenged Ron, his temper flaring. "And going through all that trouble just to warn me about the Order isn't the real you? Helping the prisoners escape isn't what the real Harry would've done?"
Harry shot Ron a long look before he neared a small window at the left of the house. He looked outside with a faraway look in his eyes, his hands tucked in his pockets. Only the faint light of the moon illuminated half of his face.
"Harry would never burn down this village," muttered Harry, his eyes fixed outside. In the dim light, he looked weary and exhausted.
Despite his cutting words, there was a hint of humanity in him.
"Is that what you're planning?" asked Ron, his heart racing.
Harry shot him a furtive glance. "This village's dead no matter what happens," he replied firmly. "Wake them up, they'll start hurting others. Keep them asleep, they'll sleep until they're dead. Why does it matter what happens to them, Weasley?"
"They're still alive!"
Harry raised a brow.
"And?"
"You're bloody killing them!"
"It doesn't matter."
"You'd say the same about your parents?" demanded Ron, unable to believe what he was hearing. "They died for you, Harry."
"They stood in the way of the Dark Lord."
"Dark Lord?" scoffed Ron, shaking his head. "That's rich coming from someone like you. Your mother died to save you, and you'd think she'd want you killing almost a thousand people, let alone burning them alive?"
"A few thousand for the rest of the world?" contended Harry, raising a brow. "Why not?"
Ron gritted his teeth. "And Sirius?" challenged Ron. "You nearly ran into the veil after him if Remus hadn't caught up to you."
"Sirius got what he deserved," replied Harry coldly.
"That's not what you think," retorted Ron.
"Right. Because you can tell me how I think," said Harry irritably. He approached Ron until they were almost at an arm's length of each other. "You think you've got talent, Weasley? You think that everyone loves you for you? They only started noticing you after I left, remember? They only give a damn about you because you've been replacing me. Once I'm back, they won't give a rat's arse who you are."
Ron flinched.
To hear those words from Harry hurt more than anything else that night. To hear him mock his insecurities when he had always been the first to reassure him. To accept that part of him. To never mock that side of him, was something that he had always admired about Harry, moreso than perhaps anyone else.
Trying not to look hurt, he gritted his teeth. "You were never like this, Harry," his voice strained, struggling to keep his emotions at bay. "This isn't you."
Harry shot him a cold look.
"No," he replied flatly. "He's dead."
Turning around, he strode across to the wall on the other side and leaned back against it with his arms crossed. The other three Death Eaters gave them both wary and curious looks. But, true to Harry's word, they didn't interrupt.
"Rubbish!" snapped Ron, trembling with fury. "You were the one that was always there for me! Not my parents! Not Hermione! It was you! It was always you!"
Harry raised a brow.
"You think it matters what happened in the past?"
"Like hell I do," snapped Ron. "Maybe you don't remember who you were before, but I do. And I won't give into your talks, Harry. I know it's all lies."
"How's Hermione – missing me?"
"Shut your trap!" wrestled Ron. No way was he letting Harry meddle with his emotions. "You don't even know her! You've forgotten her, remember?"
"And your dad?" challenged Harry, his red eyes flashing. "Must be hard not to walk on two feet again?"
"What have you done to him?" asked Ron furiously, wrestling against the chains around his wrists. "If you hurt him, I'll bloody kill –"
"Oh, I'm dead enough," replied Harry flatly, walking across to Ron. "You see, Weasley. You're no different than I am. Why not ditch the Order and come along with us? We've got enough room for traitors."
Ron gritted his teeth. He knew that Harry wanted to provoke him, but he refused to give in.
"I'll join you when Hell freezes over," spat Ron, his head throbbing. He knew that he shouldn't be getting all riled up in this state, but Harry was playing with fire.
"We'd be friends again," mocked Harry, a challenging look in his eyes. "Isn't that you've always wanted?"
"I'll never be friends with the likes of you!" snapped Ron.
"I suppose not," replied Harry dully. "But I've found someone who will," he turned to nod at the Death Eaters. "All right, Longbottom?"
To Ron's horror, the three Death Eaters were carrying a bloody and deeply bruised figure from under his armpits. His body was littered with broken bones, large gashes filled and open wounds, his face almost obliterated by the overwhelming amount of blood that dripped from his head and neck. Ron almost didn't recognise him. He looked groggy and barely conscious. As soon as the Death Eaters let go, he slumped down on the floor, his breathing heavy.
Ron grew feverish.
"Let him go, Harry!" shouted Ron, panic undulating under his skin. "You don't want to do this!"
But Harry ignored him. He shot him a 'you started this' glare before he turned on his heels and walked up to the sprawled figure on the floor.
"Harry!" choked Ron, fighting helplessly against the chains. "For bloody's sake, Harry!"
Harry moved to stand over Neville. "I'll give you a choice," he offered quietly. "You can choose to save the Order or this blasted village. Your move, Weasley."
"You think I'll give into your pathetic threats, Harry?" spat Ron, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. The blood falling from head to his mouth felt bitter and tasteless. "You think I give a damn what you're on about?"
"I don't think I've made my point clear enough, have I?" challenged Harry, his eyes pinning Ron to his spot. "Well, then – On your head, be it."
Harry waved his wand. Suddenly, a small, yellow object zoomed out of his robes and into his hand. He caught it with the skill of a Seeker.
"No!" panicked Ron. He knew that he was exacerbating his wounds by wrestling wildly against the chains, but he was far beyond thinking of himself at the moment. "Neville!"
The world felt dim and hazy. He didn't know exactly what Harry was planning on doing. Or even if he was truly planning something. Surely he wasn't serious. Surely a part of him recognised his friends. He would never take the lives of an innocent. It had been hard to believe that someone as selfless as Harry could actually be so cruel. But now he was going to see it in action, in front of him so there was no room for denial. Judging by the unyielding look in Harry's eyes, there was definitely trouble.
"There's a charm placed on it," explained Harry, holding up the coin and waving a wand at it. "At midnight, the letters will rearrange themselves to spell the word 'death.'" he shot Ron a glare and lifted the coin. "Let this be a lesson for what will happen to the rest of them, Weasley."
As if watching in slow motion, Ron saw the coin drop right onto Neville. His breath hitched in his throat. His vision dim and hazy like a mantle of mist had stifled his wits. He was almost suffocating. He watched numbly as Neville began convulsing violently and sinking into himself, as if struggling to quench the pain. After what seemed like an eternity, he slumped back, lying in a pool of his own blood. His eyes wide open. His mouth agape into a scream. His body still and vacant.
His friend. His partner. His co-worker. His classmate. The person he had long teased, sometimes even cruelly for years. Sometimes kindly. Sometimes affectionately. The one who was so painfully insecure about himself, just like Ron himself had once been.
Forever still.
"NO!" roared Ron, tears springing in waterfalls down his face. His mind was in a frenzy, his vision blurred with agony and denial.
"What's death but another version of sleep?" muttered Harry, his red eyes fixed on the body. But his voice sounded distant to Ron. Like something out of a nightmare. "Quick. Painless. Like falling sleep after a long day. Something I've always wished for."
As if the fog had cleared, Ron finally registered exactly what had happened. He knew it. Even though it hurt him to acknowledge. Even though it pierced his heart . . . He couldn't possibly deny what just happened.
Harry had killed Neville.
"You BASTARD!" bellowed Ron, fighting against the chains like a feral feline. He was breathing heavily, his eyes drenched in tears. But his heart thundered with hatred - with revenge. With the reckless desire to ring Harry's neck.
"Your choice, Weasley," said Harry coldly.
"You bloody bastard!" roared Ron, trembling with hot, boiling fury that almost blinded him. "I'll snap your bloody –"
"We're done here," interjected Harry stiffly, unperturbed by the outburst. Thoroughly ignoring Ron, he turned to nod curtly at the other three Death Eaters. Without another glance, he followed the three Death Eaters to the door, their cloaks fluttering behind them.
But then, Ron's wits kicked in. Or instinct, even. His instinct to save others. What he had strove to accomplish as an Auror. He had become an Auror because he had wanted to prove his worth. To prove that he didn't need to lean anyone. He didn't need help from anyone. That he was capable on his own. That he wasn't the person who had once failed his friend. He wanted to help others. The same way that he had wanted to help Harry.
If Harry walked out that door, the village was toast.
"Harry," struggled Ron, swallowing. "Harry, you're making a mistake. Don't do this."
He hated that he was using the name "Harry" at all. A part of him was boiling on the inside. He wanted so much to rip that demon apart limb by limb for what he had done. Not only to Neville, but the row and row of bodies that Ron had to bury with his own hands: men, women, and children. But a part of him, a large part of him, recognised his friend. He was there.
He had to be.
Harry halted in his tracks and glared back at him.
"Why are they so important to you, Weasley?" asked Harry accusingly. "They can't think like you. They can't feel like you. Why does it matter what happens to them?"
"They're innocent," insisted Ron. "It's our job to protect them, not kill them."
"Your job, you mean," Harry shot back.
"Harry, this is stupid –"
Harry's eyes narrowed. "This isn't about the villagers, is it?" he asked accusingly, moving towards Ron. "You're trying to save yourself, aren't you?"
"I'm trying to save you from yourself!" stressed Ron, wrestling against the chains around his wrists. "I know you'd regret this, Harry! I don't need Albus bloody Dumbledore to know that you'd kill yourself for this!"
Harry's eyes darkened.
"I'm far past that."
"There's always a chance to start over," said Ron. He didn't know why he was trying to reason with him, especially after he had killed Neville.
But just because someone died didn't mean that others couldn't be saved, right?
"You don't understand," said Harry, a hint of weariness in his tone. His coldness was fading judging by the way his shoulders slumped slightly.
"You're not a coward, Harry," said Ron, shaking his head. "You never were. Don't let him get to you."
"It's too late."
"It's never too late."
Harry shot him a dark look. "Funny," he said dryly, his gaze cold again. "You sound like Dumbledore."
"Well, he's the only one that's got any common sense nowadays," said Ron bitterly. He couldn't help but feel a bit unnerved that Harry was challenging Dumbledore.
"Common sense?" said Harry, a brow lifted. "You think Dumbledore's ideas of love and compassion is common sense?"
"I'm surprised you don't," said Ron darkly.
Harry snorted.
"How about a story, Weasley?"
Ron snapped. "I don't give a rat's arse what you've –!"
"You want to know why the Dark Lord's kept me alive?" challenged Harry. "I'll tell you."
"You're a part of him, I know," said Ron impatiently.
"That's half of it. It's more than that."
Ron froze. Something in Harry's demeanor had changed, almost like a glacier had melted. He shot Ron a cold look before he turned to lean against one of the walls besides a bookcase, facing Ron. He stood with his arms crossed, his head bowed, staring at nothing in particular. Ron had a million questions racing through his head but wisely decided to stay silent. Something about Harry's pensive demeanor had shook him.
It was almost familiar.
"It starts with this scar," said Harry, pointing his finger at his cheek. The scar spanned from across his cheek to his earlobe.
Ron frowned.
"I don't –"
"I was twenty-one, then," he began, his voice quiet but thoughtful. There was almost no emotion in his voice, almost as if he was reading off a script. "But I knew what it was like to have blood on my hands. I knew how much power it took to cast the Killing Curse. I've seen it enough. I've used it enough–since I was sixteen. I knew it better than my own name . . . but you know that."
Ron gritted his teeth.
He couldn't stand looking at him. Let alone listening to him. Instead, he kept his eyes fixed on the sprawled body of Neville on the floor.
He couldn't believe it. Harry's tone was so void of emotion – so void from the usual amiable voice that he always used to have around his friends. There was nothing there. Not in his voice. Not in his expression. Not in his posture. Nothing that was familiar to Ron. It didn't feel like Harry.
But it was.
"Yeah," spat Ron, coughing up blood on the floor. "You left me souvenirs. I had to bury your victims, Harry."
Along with the shadows, he travelled. Almost invisible. Almost transparent. Almost supernatural. Wherever the light travelled, at the deepest corner, underneath the largest shade, he moved. Gliding almost like a Dementor. He knew that he was getting closer. He just had to listen to the voice in his head. He just had to do what he was told. To stop the pain. To end his suffering. To become the person that he was always meant to be.
To erase his past.
Completely.
There was no moon tonight. Even the last light of the night had hidden, in a fruitless attempt to delay the inevitable. In a fruitless attempt to stop the motion of the shadows. But what was simply was.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Silent. His demons had given him the gift of insight, the gift of knowledge. The agonizing thirst to quench his curiosity, to test the limits – the boundaries! Of all that existed. Of all the borders that we, as humans, define. Why were certain actions wrong? What's the point of justice? Of death? Of suffering? Why couldn't a life be taken? Why couldn't innocents be slain? Who dictated what was right or wrong?
Or was there ever a dictator at all?
Tick. Tock. Tick.
As he treaded down the trail towards the dark silhouette of the house, he didn't leave footprints. How can he? No, he would only leave footprints – only leave evidence that he had existed – when he returned. He would make himself someone later. The past didn't exist. There was no evidence of the past. There was only the future.
Carefully, he opened the door, the door creaking and whining at his inevitable fate. It screamed at him to stop. To turn back. To rewind time. For a second chance at redemption. A second chance at essence. But there was only the creaking upon opening the door. Not upon closing.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
He entered, still draped in shadows. He nearly recoiled when he heard the soft hum of a woman at the left of the living room. He couldn't stand it. It hurt. It was too demonic. Too inhumane. Like drawing a knife along glass.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
He stayed close to the edges of the wall to avoid the dim light of the lamp in the center. The shadows guided him. Welcomed him. Praised him. And so comforted, the hum of the woman faded from his mind, even though she was still humming. He didn't hear her. He only heard the boisterous cheers of the shadows.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
Finally, he reached the room. This time, he had to step into the light. But he stood in the doorway, the whisper in his head telling him that he had arrived. His back deflected the light of the lamp from the outside so that only his dark silhouette and his shadow on the floor entered the room. In the dim light, only his red eyes gleamed from underneath the shadows.
But the woman didn't notice. She was too busy rocking her wailing, infant child in her arms. But he didn't hear her hums. Or her soothing words. Instead, he stood silently until his shadow extended to her line of vision.
Tick. Tock. Tick.
She panicked, almost dropping her son in the process. With a cry that he didn't hear, she laid her son down in the crib and drew her wand to defend her son. He saw her mouth open, saw her lips moving, but he didn't move. He didn't block it. He let her cast the Cutting Curse. But she missed, and it zoomed past his cheek.
Some people might have felt pain.
But does a shadow feel anything? Did it even exist?
"Of course, I've seen it enough," said Harry, his voice still distant. Still staring at nothing, it was almost as if he was in a different world. "I've seen it in my nightmares. You know – well, everyone knows . . . my mother's sacrifice. I knew what not to do. I knew what would happen if I let her die for her son. So, I killed her first. I was sure I took her life before I turned to her son. There was no counter-curse, then. There was no love to save him. I killed him, Weasley. And I left."
"You're sick," managed Ron, his face crunched up in disgust. He couldn't help but think of little Hugo in the crib, and Harry being his killer.
"I had to hide the evidence," continued Harry impassively. "I couldn't let the Order know, they were looking for me. So, I burned the home, I stood back and watched the fire take their bodies until there was nothing left. Almost as if they had never existed. Almost as if they had never lived at all. I looked at the fire, and I laughed. I didn't see what died there that night. I didn't see the mother or her son."
From his position on the wall, Ron thought that he saw a flicker of green cross Harry's eyes. But he didn't know if it was just from the yellow glow from the candles.
"The smoke was thick," said Harry, his voice quiet but pensive. "I could hardly see anything. Hardly see past it. I looked up, but I didn't see anything. No moon. No meaning. All I saw was the smoke, but it was familiar. Almost like I'd seen it before. Almost like I always knew it was there. Something I've always denied. And I realised that night . . . Dumbledore was wrong."
Harry straightened. Ron watched dimly as Harry leaned off the wall and slowly walked to him. He looked up at his former friend with a sense of dread in his heart. As they locked eyes, Ron realised that there was specks of green in Harry's eyes.
"You want to know the real reason why Voldemort didn't kill me, Weasley?" said Harry, a steel gaze in his eyes. "I'll tell you. I'll tell you the reason why he's kept me alive after all these years."
Ron registered the use of "Voldemort" instead of the usual "Dark Lord." But his heart was racing. Suddenly, he didn't want to know the answer. Instead, he watched as the green specks of Harry's eyes trounced the red.
"You want to know what I saw that night, Weasley?" murmured Harry. "You want to know what I saw past the fire, the smoke, the ruins?"
Ron couldn't speak. He knew that Harry was slowly reverting back to his original state. But he couldn't speak over the sense of foreboding in his chest.
"Nothing," he whispered in a broken tone. His face was contorted with pain, his eyes dead green. "I saw nothing."
And it was only then did Ron realise that it wasn't Voldemort that was speaking anymore.
It was Harry. The real Harry.
Feeling a deep wave of anguish cross him, he closed his eyes against the agonizing green eyes of his former friend and bowed his head. He couldn't meet his eyes. The green in his eyes scared him more – the anguish, the accusing gaze, the suffering. They hurt more than the red. In a way, he wished that they were red again. That way, he would know that it wasn't Harry speaking. He would know that Harry had never meant those words. That it was only Voldemort speaking through him.
But his confession hurt Ron more deeply than anything else that night. It was true. Harry had lost the will to live. Life was meaningless to him. His possession–his crimes were proof of that. It was something, to Ron, that was even worse than Death. To destroy someone from the inside did more damage than any type of physical harm. In a way, he would have preferred to see Harry dead rather than witness the remnants of what was left of him after ten years. He couldn't believe that someone as resilient and as hot-headed as Harry had actually perished.
He couldn't believe that he had abandoned his friend. It was their fault that Harry was like this. They should never have stopped looking for him.
In a way, Voldemort had won.
"Voldemort's right," whispered Harry, resignation in his posture. "There's nothing for me here."
Ron swallowed.
A voice in his head was deafening. He knew, deep inside, that Harry was wrong to think this way. There was meaning in life. But he didn't know how to voice it. It was almost like an innate feeling. Something that couldn't possibly be explained.
And then, it clicked.
Something that only he and Harry knew about.
"What was it that you wanted most in this world, Harry?" asked Ron, his jaw clenched. He looked determinedly into Harry's green eyes.
Harry frowned.
"I don't –"
"Answer the question!" demanded Ron. "You know it, Harry. What was it? Your deepest heart's desire."
Harry gave him a long, strange look. He looked both irritated and disconcerted by the question. But if there was anything that could change his mind, it was what he had seen that night in the Mirror of Erised fifteen years ago.
But then, his eyes hardened. His gaze was cold again.
"To rest," he said flatly.
Ron stilled in shock. He watched dumbly as Harry's solemn expression shifted to a steel gaze. He nodded curtly at the Death Eaters guarding the room. The three left the room with their cloaks billowing behind them. Harry shot him one final distrustful look before he turned on his heels and walked away, his cloak fluttering behind him. Ron watched his retreating back with a dull sense of defeat in his insides.
He couldn't believe it.
That couldn't have been his answer. It must've been Voldemort talking, not Harry.
But an irritating voice in his head told him that Voldemort was too afraid of death. He would never have said that so clearly–so succinctly, with not a single ounce of hesitance in his tone.
No, it was Harry.
And as he glanced at the still body of Neville lying spread eagle on the ground, a pool of blood around him, a heart-wrenching realisation crossed him as he heard the last echo of Harry's footsteps before the door slammed shut behind him.
They hadn't lost just one life that night.
They had lost two.
A/N: Writers should be arrested.
Erm . . . I am suffering from Watchmen withdrawal. It was so sad. So beautiful. I freaking love Rorschach. So sad what happened to him. If you haven't read it, go read it. I took a lot of inspiration from it, though (hint, Harry's monologue) since they both have the same MBTI type. Also, lots from Sandman as well, like the idea of the sleeping villagers. Sorry if it was too disturbing (not sorry).
Also, most chapters have been edited in terms of grammer and relevancy. I've been improving my writing a lot, so now, I think, previous chapters are easier to read. Basically, I've been cleaning up my writing. Also, Hephzibah Smith's thing with the Aurors was discussed back in Chapter 4, which I keep referencing back to. Look out for symbolism and literary devices as well (yes, I use them).
Oh, and why Harry remembers certain things over others, why he's possessed in the first place, the connection between himself and the Horcrux inside of him will be discussed in lengths in later chapters. So, stay tuned.
Also, whereabouts of the Horcruxes and origins of Magical creatures will be different from Canon. Anyway, hope you enjoy.
Not exactly the best friendship reunion, is it?
Review.